Happy April, fools!
Listen now, I know all of this latter-day hysteria has us a little down in the dumps. We need not obsess over a teeny-tiny organism that we can’t even see. So, today we’re going to discuss something else entirely! Something fun! To the sports desk:
TPC’S EXCLUSIVE 2020 MASTERS TOURNAMENT COVERAGE
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Okay… um… the virus, then...
Greetings, dear friends. I trust you’re all at home, bored to tears. How are the kids? What? No “school” again this week? Get ‘em some of that STEM they keep talking about, which I think has something to do with botany. How was church Sunday? Got your $1,200 in government cheese yet? I jest, sorry. Anyway, one of the subjects the kiddos aren’t missing right now is literature. And part of that, fabled throughout our long history, is the art of poetry. Assonance, meter, carburetion, and other elements have always eluded my mastery. So, since you have nothing to do and I am just about out of my damn mind, let’s give it a stab. Yes, gather up your traveling papers, maintain that social distance, and let’s shelter in place while we bail ourselves out with a pandemic poem.
Safer at Gnome
By Perrin Lovett
There is a tree, in west Tennessee, outside of Jackson, they say.
There lives a Gnome, often happy at home, who can keep the virus at bay.
Just play him a tune, at a quarter past noon, on a fretted old dulcimer, true.
And, ask him politely, if he might do rightly, to stem the pandemic of dread.
But, mention not his neighbor; Leprechaun did him no favor when he gave their gold to the Fed.
Magic, you see, from a Gnome in a tree, is all that salvation requires.
Oh, what’s that you say? And, what, by the way, should we sing to our new little friend?
Just strum ye along, to this favorite song, and watch all our troubles upend:
When you gonna sicken me, s-sicken me?
Is it just a matter of time, CORONA?
Is it q-q-quarantine, q-quarantine?
Or is it just a hack in my throat, CORONA?*
*NO APOLOGIES TODAY!
Hang on! THIS GUY sings it better, I think, even if his lyrics are a little different.
A Scene from the New Normal:
Minor scene (lower, left) from “Plague Doctor,” by Paul Fürst, 1656. A Public Domain engraving; so, back under your bridge...
Yeah! So, how are all of you? Life is wonderful here in the bunker, let me tell you. No, today this column just can’t get any traction. That’s alright, really. It’s different now that we’re living out Alas, Babylon. And, we didn’t even get the thrills of THE DAY! Speaking of books, I have a few, new and old, I’d like to recommend. There’s also a final and definitive engineering report out, concerning the intentional demolition of WTC 7. But, since nobody reads or thinks anymore, I’ll let those ideas float off with the breeze.
A quick recap of the national affairs: There’s a cold bug going around. America allegedly has the most cases of any country - naturally what one would expect from the truly exceptional nation. We’re Number One! We’re Number One! Worse, it’s generated a mass hysteria of a kind that I heretofore thought utterly impossible. INDEPENDENTLY, the economy of the modern world is collapsing. Your pet Republicrats have failed, as have your votes. Good job! The country is locked down, having become a continent-sized prison where most people gleefully, if fearfully, act as their own jailors. Hey! If you’re out and about, and the das örtliche Schutzstaffel stops you, demanding to see “your papers,” just wave a copy of the most revered and holy Constitution at them. Tell ‘em about your Republic! The Dollar General in BFE had a roll of Charmin - it’s gone, sorry. Tulsi Gabbard betrayed your alternative dreams when she endorsed an Alzheimer’s case who once took a rusty chain to Corn Pop. Orange Man speaks perpetually, if stupidly. The Covens of Hell in Washington plot some sort of war, either with Iran or another country(s) that America can no longer defeat. The last operational church, in Tampa, closed after its pastor was arrested for being a faithful Christian. USA! USA! USA!
The “Q” Brigade went full Civ-Nat retard the other day. On or about that same day, a couple of braindead bimbo banking shills wrote the most childish editorial for the Augusta Chronicle that I’ve ever read in that publication since at least any of the previous ones. I toyed with the idea of dissecting each of those missives - any drunken cephalopod could do as much with ease - but, again, what’s the point?
Our enemy is invisible, just like the emperor’s new clothes.
Happy April. Or, May. Or, 1984. Or, whatever this is.
*Next week we will continue TPC’s EXCLUSIVE coverage of MLB and the NHL.